Dating Games(8)

Rubbing my eyes, I try to shake off the cobwebs, my tongue feeling like sandpaper. Thankfully, drunk Evie must have predicted I’d wake up with a hangover to rival all hangovers and left a water bottle and a couple aspirin on the nightstand. Drunk Evie really is thoughtful.

I reach for the pills, pop them into my mouth, and chase them with a huge gulp of water, practically downing the entire bottle to dull the fire. After returning the bottle to the table, I collapse back onto the bed, the cool, silky sheets comforting against my skin.

As I stare at the ceiling, I exhale a long breath, the reality of yesterday slowly trickling back. Trevor really did break up with me. On my thirtieth birthday. Because I’m not serious enough. I’ll show him how wrong he is. I just need to nurse this hangover, then I’ll begin Operation Prove Trevor Wrong. If he wants a serious girlfriend, I can be that. I can tone down the jokes. I can stop making snarky comments. I can even write some different articles for the magazine. Less raunchy, more smart humor. What I can’t do is throw away over a decade of our relationship because he doesn’t think I’m the type of girl he can be with if he wants to make partner. I’ve always been a problem solver. Right now, this issue with Trevor is simply a problem I vow to fix.

Closing my eyes, I wrap the comforter around my body. I expect the remnants of Trevor’s scent to infiltrate my senses. But it doesn’t. One night and his aroma has already faded from the bed we once shared.

As I try not to think about that, my foot brushes against another body. I still, inhaling sharply. Did Trevor forget he broke up with me? Was he so exhausted after working all night he was on autopilot and climbed into bed? Better yet, did he already realize what a mistake he made and changed his mind, but I was in too much of an alcohol-induced coma to remember him telling me as much?

Hope building, I glance beside me, expecting to see Trevor’s impeccable dark hair. Everything about him is always perfect, right down to the lack of bedhead when he gets up in the morning. He makes me feel like Cousin It next to him.

When I see a full head of disheveled, sandy brown hair instead of Trevor’s pristine locks, I bolt up. The duvet falls around my waist, revealing my underwear-clad body. Then I look up, realizing I’m not in my bedroom.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I whisper shout, wracking my brain for a clue as to how I went from having a girls’ night to sharing a bed with a stranger. Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe I told him my sob story about what happened earlier in the night and he offered me a place to sleep so I didn’t have to go back to a home full of memories.

But practically naked?

Nice try, Evie. There’s a better chance of it snowing in Florida than that being true. There’s only one explanation why I’m scantily dressed and in another man’s bed after a night of drinking.

I had a one-night stand.

With a stranger.

Hours after the man I thought I’d marry dumped me.

No wonder it seems like the world’s out of balance this morning, aside from the dizziness consuming me due to the alcohol I’m sure still flows through my bloodstream. I’ve now slept with four men.

Surely this can be excused as a result of some relationship-related PTSD. I’m not trying to make light of the severity of actual PTSD, but I need something, anything to make me feel better about the situation. I don’t have one-night stands. I just…don’t. Especially with someone I met at a bar. What kind of man takes home a drunk girl and sleeps with her anyway? No one worth sticking around to find out about.

Mumbling a silent prayer that I can escape unnoticed, I carefully lift the duvet off me and step onto the chilly hardwood floor. As I tiptoe around the large room, every muscle in my body aches, probably due to the previous night’s calisthenics. I search for my dress, expecting to find it crumpled on the floor, along with a trail of his clothes leading to the bed. Instead, it’s neatly slung over a chair in the corner. Maybe he’s a neat freak.

When I tug the dress over my head, a whiff of a powder-fresh scent filters into my nostrils. I’d anticipated it to smell like alcohol and sweat, not as if it had been recently laundered.

Curiosity piqued, I glance at the bed to get a better look at the man I found irresistible in my alcohol-induced fog. When I see his chiseled face, I release what I hope is a noiseless gasp, my hand flying to cover my mouth.

It’s him. The man I noticed sitting across the bar after telling the entire place about my breakup. The man who caused a jolt of electricity to course through my veins when he brushed against me. The man whose blue eyes I couldn’t get out of my mind all night, even after he left. How the hell did I end up here?

Cautious, I step closer to the bed, hoping something will trigger a memory. If nothing else, at least I went home with an attractive guy. Well, attractive isn’t an accurate descriptor of this man’s beauty. The way he looks so peaceful, yet still incredibly masculine as he sleeps causes a tingle to spread through me at the thought of what we did last night. I can almost hear his deep voice whispering his most carnal desires into my ear. I imagine he was a sensual lover, one who put my needs first, making sure I was taken care of. Maybe it’s a good thing I can’t remember. Then I can pretend it never happened. Pretend I’ve still only slept with three people.

My eyes rake down his naked torso, confirming what I’d imagined last night as I ogled his physique. Broad shoulders. Sculpted pecs. Chiseled abs. And the cherry on top… An intricate tribal tattoo of a phoenix covering his back. This is a man who obviously takes care of himself. He’s not one of those guys who’s too muscular that it’s unattractive. His muscles are firm and defined, but not overly so. He’s pure perfection, making it nearly impossible to look away.